


Lectures

by yeaka



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 23:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17414642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Glorfindel stumbles on Erestor at work.





	Lectures

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

While Erestor’s glued to his desk far more than any other elf Glorfindel’s ever met, he somehow manages to be absent just as often—his duties both burry him in paperwork and carry him all over Imladris. It isn’t unusual for Glorfindel to have to hunt him down, even for something as simple as a ‘ _Will you have lunch with me?_ ’ The saving grace is that Imladris has the best weather of anywhere Glorfindel’s ever been, save, perhaps, Valinor itself, and it isn’t much of a chore to have to stroll about the sprawling buildings. He does try to ask the many scurrying servants he passes, as most report directly to Erestor, but the information he receives is always out of date; if Erestor isn’t at his desk, he’s on the move. 

By the time Glorfindel finally narrows the field down to a small, outlying building used mostly for storage, the time for lunch has come and gone. Glorfindel persists anyway, because the minstrel in the dining room hasn’t seen Erestor yet, nor has today’s cook, and if Erestor will be eating late, Glorfindel may as well wait for him. Meals are always better shared, especially with a friend, the closer the better. And Erestor is a friend worth waiting for. 

Sure enough, he finds the old door open, and when he slips inside, amongst the towering piles of forgotten furniture, he hears the telltale whisper of fine robes brushing over stone. Moving silently on the hope of catching his friend by surprise, Glorfindel creeps through the darkened entryway. High slits, barely wide enough to constitute windows, cast stray sunbeams down through the wealth of shadows. It’s in one of these rare illuminated patches that Glorfindel spots his prey, held in the arms of another.

Glorfindel freezes. Erestor’s back is mostly to him, but he would know the elf anywhere—the well-toned, lean body wrapped in dark robes, and the darker hair cascading slickly down trim shoulders. The elf pressed up against him is younger by some centuries, fairer in colouring, and far less experienced in these matters—Glorfindel can tell from the way he gasps and turns aside as Erestor chases his lips. Erestor deftly slips one hand around the back of his neck, fisting in his chestnut hair, and pulls him in for another bruising kiss that has the younger elf visibly quaking. Lindir’s eyes are clenched close, his lips rose pink, his cheeks flushed bright. Erestor bites into his bottom lip, tugs and pulls way, chastely kissing the side and descends down his chin. A low moan bubbles out of Lindir’s throat as Erestor deftly kisses his way down it, slowly sinking to his knees. 

Erestor’s head tilts back. His hands have slid down Lindir’s body with him, and now he rests against Lindir’s thighs, indenting the rich robes around them. Erestor murmurs in a voice thick with sensuality, “You must look at me, Lindir, or you will not know what to do.”

With a deep breath, Lindir nods. His lashes flutter slowly up, dilated pupils peering down at the gorgeous creature before him. But the light must betray Glorfindel too, because Lindir’s gaze quickly catches on him, darting up. Stepping back and free of Erestor’s hold, Lindir stammers, “M-my lord—”

Glorfindel has no words. It isn’t just surprise; he has nothing to say to the poor servant he’s startled. Turning bright red and flinching in clear embarrassment, Lindir mumbles, “Sorry,” to no one in particular. Then he hurriedly rushes forward, squeezing past Glorfindel to flee down the isle and out of the building. Erestor, looking back over one shoulder, passively watches him go.

There’s a moment of tangible silence that neither of them breaks. Glorfindel is the first to move, coming forward, and then Erestor follows suit, rising to his feet. Glorfindel notes, “You need not get off your knees for my sake.”

A thin smile stretches across Erestor’s lips. He’s never been easy to rattle. His hands smooth over the front of his robes, his posture as stern as usual, as though he’s been caught doing nothing more than bringing in spare furniture. He coolly asks, “How may I serve you, Lord Glorfindel?”

There are a great many things Erestor could do for Glorfindel that would bring Glorfindel great joy. Yet he can’t help but tease, “You can provide me the same service as young Lindir.”

Erestor arches one pointed brow. His expressions are often as sharp as his mind, and Glorfindel always watches them raptly. Slowly, Erestor muses, “You also wish to learn the skill to bring pleasure to our lord?” Glorfindel opens his mouth. No sound comes out yet, and Erestor doesn’t give him the chance. Erestor’s voice holds a hint of laughter as he continues, “I love him dearly, of course, and wish those who strive to please him to do so well. Though I admit... I am not sure I see the point in teaching one who doubtless needs no lessons.”

Glorfindel’s throat has run dry. Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise him—Erestor is a bastion of knowledge, and he fits the teacher type, though an especially strict one. Lindir, on the other hand, often seems a nervous wreck in the face of the unknown, and of course he would turn to his superior for help. Glorfindel suddenly finds himself disappointed that he didn’t discover the scene earlier, in order to watch it in its entirety.

He hopefully ventures, “Would you believe that I am not so learned in these matters as my looks and manners would have me seem?” At least this is a new era for him, and he hasn’t yet sowed quite the same reputation in Imladris as he did in Gondolin—he met Erestor early on, and has still been chasing that same dream for some time. Erestor has proved a tricky thing to catch, which only compounds Glorfindel’s surprise to have found Lindir receiving the attention he so desperately wants but hasn’t yet achieved.

Erestor’s knowing smile is both mysterious and full of promise. He takes a step closer, then another, until the hem of his robes is draped over the toes of Glorfindel’s riding boots. He places one delicate hand on Glorfindel’s forearm, and he tilts forward, the curtain of his dark hair draping onto Glorfindel’s chest.

Erestor’s lips come just short of the point of contact. Glorfindel can feel it when Erestor whispers, “No.”

Then Erestor straightens, bows politely, and continues on the way that Lindir went. Glorfindel is left reeling, his overheated mind struggling to piece together Erestor’s meaning: no, Erestor wouldn’t believe that Glorfindel is already anything less than exemplary in bed.

Glorfindel’s never wanted anyone so much in both his lives. His stomach growls with two kinds of hunger, and he rushes forward to ask for that lunch.


End file.
